A Study In Pink
by RainThestral93
Summary: John Watson, war hero, invalided home from Afghanistan, meets a strange but charismatic genius who is looking for a flatmate. He hears the words "could be dangerous" and finds himself sucked into a world of mystique, murder, and madmen. What are the odds that he'll find life with Sherlock Holmes to be too exciting to give up? [My interpretation of the TV series, Fic 1 of 6]
1. Baffled

**A/N: **Hey there. It's been a while since I've written anything; school has taken precedence over my writing for the past 6 months or so. I've got a 12 week summer in which I intend to write as much as possible. My latest project is this; translating the BBC series of Sherlock into FanFic format. I intend to stick to the script as much as possible, but may add embellishment of my own later on. I'd like to credit Ariane DeVere for translating Sherlock into transcript format. I'll be relying heavily on her work for this Fic so she deserves a round of applause (and possibly a knighthood as I was thinking I'd have to sit and watch Sherlock on loop 'till I got the dialogue perfect. Fortunately, thanks to her I don't need to) so check out her livejournal here I think the series is brilliant, yet the characters are not my own so **DISCLAIMER:** This is a non-profit venture, I only seek to utilise the brilliant characters and ideas of none other than Steven Moffat for entertainment purposes. Wish me luck. I hope you'll all read, review and enjoy this fic – all feedback is appreciated. God bless – Beth

* * *

He wakes, in a cold sweat. The chatter of machine guns rings in his ears, and his hands are shaking. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Just like his therapist has taught him. The dreams are a frequent occurrence and routinely interrupt his sleep. The shadows under his eyes are proof of this, and rubbing them, John Watson realises that he is not in Afghanistan anymore, but a bedsit in London. When this reality overwhelms him, he begins to sob, deep gasping cries that wrack his whole body.

Some time later he sits up, switching on his bedside lamp and wiping his tear streaked cheeks with the back of his hands, which are no longer shaking. His cane lies to the side of him and he regards it with contempt. Everything about it screams "useless" and that is all he feels. He is handicapped, he has no purpose. He is a burden to Harry and to the state. He might be a Doctor but what good is he if he can't even fix himself? He hasn't slept in days and he can barely scrape together the rent for the dingy abode he currently resides in.

* * *

When morning finally arrives, John is seated at his desk. His mug of tea with the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps on it is a physical reminder of where he is not. Groaning, he pulls out his laptop from a drawer in his desk, eyes glancing over the pistol that resides there. He's thought about it once or twice, when he's been in lots of pain. Wondered what it would be like, pressing the cool metal to his forehead. The click of the trigger. Then nothing. But that's what he has his blog for. When life overwhelms him, John Watson writes about it. Ella, his psychotherapist, suggested it. It hasn't helped much thus far. The page is blank – for what on earth is he meant to write about? "I had another nightmare. I didn't sleep for the rest of the night. Caffeine is the only thing keeping me going right now."

He has an appointment with Ella later. He knows she'll ask how the blog is going, and he knows that she'll see through his lie that it's "Good. Very good." It is her job to be perceptive, after all.

Sure enough, sat in a leather chair in her office that afternoon she enquires. "How's your blog going?"

"Yeah, good." He clears his throat, trying to sound assertive. He manages sheepish, at best. "Very good."

Ella rolls her eyes. "You haven't written a word, have you?" Progress has been slow with John – after all, you can't help someone if they don't want to help themselves.

His eyes narrow and points to the spiral bound notepad on her lap. "You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'."

"And you read my writing upside down. Do you see what I mean?" She sighs, pitying the man in front of her. He looks a little rough around the edges, and he manages an awkward smile. "John, you're a soldier." His gaze is turned away from her, he looks out of the window wistfully yet she continues, "It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens will honestly help you."

He turns back to face her, his face torn between self-pity and despair. "Nothing happens to me."

* * *

_October 12__th_

A middle aged business man in a suit walks briskly across the concourse of a London railway station, mobile phone pressed to his ear as he asks, "What do you mean, there's no ruddy car?"  
A muffled female voice on the other end of the phone replies, "He went to Waterloo. I'm sorry. Get a cab."  
Affronted, he exclaims, "I never get cabs!" He smirks, the woman on the other end of the phone is his secretary, Helen, and has just told him that she loves him. He lilts suggestively, "When?" and she giggles, telling him again to get a cab. Smiling, he hangs up and searches for the taxi rank.

This very same man who is having an illicit affair with his secretary and is, for all intents and purposes, comfortable with his lot is found dead in an office devoid of furniture sometime later that day. A small capsule, one of three, has passed his lips and the police are none the wiser. They have not seen his wide-eyed terrified stare as he swallowed the pill, nor did they see him writhing on the floor in agony. Nobody did. That Sir Jeffrey would take his life in such a way is baffling.

* * *

At the police conference, and Margaret Patterson, the wife of Sir Jeffrey, reads from her statement tearfully. "My husband was a happy man who lived life to the full. He loved his family and his work – and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him." The secretary, Helen, stands at the corner of the room is struggling to keep a lid on her emotions. Eventually, her eyes flutter shut and tears roll down her cheeks.

* * *

_November 26__th_  
_  
_Two young men are running down a street, torrential downpour soaking their clothes. One of them has opened an umbrella and is struggling to control it in the wind whilst the other has pulled his jacket over his head. A black cab approaches, its sign lit yellow, and the boy yelps in triumph at their evident salvation from the elements.  
"Yes, yes, taxi!" He whistles and waves to the driver but it drives past. He lets out an exasperated sound, before turning to his friend.  
"I'll be back in two minutes, mate."  
"What?" The teen called Gary asks, confused.  
"I'm going home to get my Mum's umbrella." The young man called James, or Jimmy to those close to him, convinces his friend that he'll be two minutes, and heads off back the way they came.

Some time later, Gary is stood, looking at his watch, worried because his friend has been gone for far longer than he said he would. Something is not right.

* * *

Jimmy's breaths are interspersed with sobs and he sits clutching a small glass vial which has three large capsules inside. His hands are shaking, and he is sobbing, he reaches inside and the next day, _The Daily Express_ headline reads "Boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre."

* * *

_January 27__th_

Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport fumbles in her handbag for her keys, sighing as she struggles to locate them. Inside the venue where a party has been thrown in her honour two of her aides are talking, their voices hushed, as a set of keys are exchanged. They look alarmed, as they realise that she is no longer inside the hall.

She sobs hysterically as she reaches out for a small glass bottle which contains three large capsules, her emotions overwhelming her as she stands inside a portacabin, and greets death. Her body is found later that night, and the police rule it as suicide.

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade, an experienced and able member of Scotland Yard sits at the police press conference table looking uncomfortable. Cameras flash and his fiddles with his hands as he listens to Sergeant Sally Donovan address the assembled reporters, cameras flashing all around. "The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is on-going but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."  
An incredulous reporter asks him a question which has been weighing on his mind the past few days. "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"

He sighs, before divulging all that the police know. Which isn't an awful lot. "They all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of-"  
The reporter interrupts him saying, "But you can't have serial suicides," and his lack of sleep causes him to retort in a dismissive manner.  
"Well apparently you can."  
Another reporter cuts in. "These three people: there's nothing that links them?"  
"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one." The room is filled with various pings and beeps as phones trill to show that a simultaneous text message has been received. A single word, embellished with an exclamation point.

_Wrong!_

Both Donovan and Lestrade have received the message, too, and the Detective Inspector's forehead creases. He knows exactly who is responsible for this, and his patience is wearing thin. It's one thing for him to have to call on the man in question, as strictly speaking the Yard doesn't consult amateurs. But for him to ridicule the force like this crosses the line.

He clears his throat. "If you've all got texts, please just ignore them."  
A reporter confirms his suspicions. "Just says 'wrong'."  
"Yeah well ignore that," Donovan instructs dismissively. "Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."  
"But if they're suicides, what exactly are you investigating?" The reporter ask the question that is confusing everyone.  
"As I say, these… these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it's an _unusual_ situation." Lestrade is at a loss. He has no more of a clue than the rest of the force but it's important that the British public retain their faith in the squad, so he adds, "We've got our best people investigating-" there is another array of electronic devices making noises, and the same text message finds itself in the assembled journalists inboxes.  
_  
Wrong!_

Despairing, Lestrade looks at Sally. The arrogant git will be severely reprimanded for this.

"One more question." Donovan tells the reporters.  
"Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" The reporter's tone is hopeful, as murder is exciting and just the sort of thing that will give a rookie journalist their big break. But Lestrade quells the notion.  
"I know that you like writing about these, but these _do_ appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, er, the poison was clearly self-administered."  
Conspirationally, the reporter asks, "Yes but if they _are_ murders, how are people to keep themselves safe?"  
Lestrade, agitated, scoffs, "Well, don't commit suicide." Donovan murmurs a warning '_Daily Mail'_ under her breath, and Lestrade grimaces, before continuing. "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

The mobiles in the room go off again with the exception of Lestrade's which takes a moment longer than everyone else's' to receive the message. His addresses Lestrade directly, is succinct and to the point and signed with the initials 'SH'.  
_  
You know where  
to find me.  
SH_

A fractious Detective Inspector puts his phone in his pocket, thanks the reporters and stands up to leave.

Shortly after this, he and Sergeant Donovan are walking through the offices of Scotland Yard.

"You've got to stop him doing that," she instructs him, her evident dislike for the message sender in her tone of voice. "He's making us look like idiots."

"Well if you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him!" He exclaims. Today is clearly not his day.

* * *

**A/N:** Nothing much happens in this chapter, I'm aware. But I had to set the scene and introduce the actual mystery. Next chapter we'll be meeting the elusive Sherlock Holmes in person. Hold onto your seats!


	2. An Old Friend

**A/N: **Decided to elongate Mike and John's encounter. Sherlock and John will meet in the next chapter. Let me know what you think, as ever - Beth

* * *

Chapter Two

Mike Stamford was a patient man. Docile, gentle and easy going as is usually the nature of men who like their food. But he had absolutely nothing on Molly Hooper; the girl was a saint she really was. That very afternoon he'd witnessed a curious exchange between her and Sherlock Holmes, a man who often occupied the labs at Bart's, conducting all manner of experiments and swanning about in his fancy coat. Molly had spent five minutes pacing back and forth outside the mortuary, touched up her lipstick and taken the plunge and asked the tall, dark-haired curiosity out for coffee. He'd been completely oblivious to her request and Mike chuckled to himself as he recalled their exchange.

_"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before."_

His voice was brisk and told you he was a man of the Sciences purely from the analytical undertones that resounded through the room when he spoke. Her hand had flown to her hair self-consciously and she'd stammered a bit before asking him out for coffee, blushing at the notion that Sherlock had even registered such a subtle change in her appearance.

Completely obtuse, Sherlock had retorted, "Black two sugars, please, I'll be upstairs," and that had been the end of it. Mike had patted Molly on the back when she'd come to him in a tizz, told her that Sherlock would come round and that she just had to keep trying.

He wasn't really sure what the pretty young thing saw in Sherlock to be perfectly honest, aside from cheekbones that could cut glass the man had very little going for him, and his social etiquette wasn't even worth mentioning.

Then again, that was Sherlock Holmes for you, Mike grimaced darkly to himself. That very same day he'd been told that his waist line had expanded an inch in the last month and that if he wasn't careful he'd have a heart attack.

Sherlock Holmes was just the person you wanted to be friends with if you wanted a reality check. But Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of person anyone could stand to be around for longer than fifteen minutes without wanting to throttle. Mike had not been surprised to hear the man moaning about the expense of living in London and his lack of compatibility with potential flatmates; apparently the man required someone who wouldn't mind him playing violin in the early hours of the morning, and had a strong stomach as he had a tendency to leave body parts lying around. Just usual requests for a flatmate, you know. He really was strange, that Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford chuckled to himself.

* * *

Mike was enjoying a nice relaxing sit down on a bench – he'd always believed that walking was over rated, anyway, when he spotted a man who looked extremely familiar. He'd reeled through a list of names from his medical school days before alighting on the right one. John Watson.

"John!" He shouted after the man who'd hobbled past, using an aluminium walking stick. Goodness, Mike thought, wondered what happened there. "John Watson!" The man turned round at the mention of his name, having moments previously been in a world of his own.

He regarded Mike with an apprehensive look – like he couldn't quite place him. Mike stuck out a hand, greeting him enthusiastically and saved him the brain work. "Mike Stamford, I know I got fat!" John's confusion dissipated, and he shook Mike's hand, embarrassment tinging his features. No comment. Stupidly, he asked John what happened – he'd heard he was meant to be abroad. Awkward silence.

"I got shot." Ah, tactless, Mike, tactless, the rotund but friendly man chided himself.

"Sorry," he nodded, feeling like a prize idiot, "Can I buy you a coffee? It's been ages – what, 5 years? Would be nice to catch up." John looked around, trying to find an excuse by the looks of things, but came up with nothing, and nodded, clearing his throat.

"Would love one, sure."

* * *

"So are you still teaching at Bart's then?" John asked amicably.

"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" Both men laughed as they recalled their med school days. That felt like an age ago now, John thought to himself as he sipped his decidedly average vendor coffee.

Their conversation was punctuated with short replies and long, awkward pauses such is the case when two old friends bump into each other after such a long time. John told him about his time in Afghanistan, detailing the nature of his injury and explaining his current predicament trying to find a place to live – London was far too expensive for a man on an army pension. The ex-army doctor shifted his coffee cup to his other hand, clenching his fist and wincing as he tried to control a tremor.

Mike Stamford sneaked a glance at the man on the bench beside him. It was an idea, and a crazy one at that. It started as a small niggling question but when John responded to a joke Mike made about John's crazy student days in a short, clipping manner and his eyes clouded over with detachment, as he claimed to be a "not that John Watson" anymore, Mike couldn't help but be reminded of the individual he'd been trying to keep up with an hour previously as he'd lamented the unavailability of flatmates.

John had dismissed Stamford's suggestion that he ask his sister, Harry, for a bit of money to help out with the expense of living in London. She could barely help herself – why on earth would he turn to her for aid? There was a silence, that elongated and engulfed the bench they were sitting on before Mike cleared his throat.

"I don't know," he broached the subject, feeling quite pleased to be of assistance. "Get a flat-share?"

John scoffed, gesturing to his leg. "Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

A wry smile spread across Mike's features. "Do you know, you're the second person that said that to me today?"

"Why, who's the first?" John's eyebrows alighted in surprise, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He really was a London man, through and through. It was just strange, for a chance interaction with an old medical school friend to lead to an answer to John's problems.

"I can introduce you to him if you're interested," Mike suggested, feigning nonchalance. Who knows, maybe Sherlock would be less of an arse if he had one less thing to complain about. "I think he's still at Bart's. I've finished my lunch; I'm heading back that way. Are you free?"

John shrugged, "Yeah I've got nothing going on."

What could be the harm? He thought to himself. Anyone who was friends with plain and normal Mike Stamford was bound to be decent enough, he reckoned.

He couldn't be more unprepared for what was about to hit him.


	3. Introductions

Chapter Three: Introductions

Sherlock Holmes was so engrossed in the Petri dish in front of him that he very nearly failed to register the sound of footsteps approaching the lab, and the murmur of two male voices. One was Stamford – you could tell from the man's heavy tread on the linoleum of the hospital as well as his resonating chuckle – but the other man was a stranger to him. Feigning nonchalance, as the door swung open and Mike and his friend entered, Sherlock regarded the stranger with a quick once over – enough to ascertain the information he needed – from the periphery of his vision, as he squeezed liquid from a pipette onto his experiment.

"Well," the stranger started amicably, "Bit different from my day."

"You have no idea," Mike chuckled. So, they'd gone to school together. The man was a doctor, then. Judging by the man's stance, and the way he held himself aloft, he had "the armed forces" written all over him – so he was a military doctor, at that.

The man walked with an aluminium cane – which didn't take a genius to figure out that he was injured in some way. Wounded in action? Yes, Sherlock deduced, but not his leg. The nature of his limp was psychosomatic, as he hadn't asked for a chair, which indicated he'd forgotten about his injury. He'd been invalided home. Which explained why he was here – no soldier could afford London on an army pension, and just that morning Sherlock had complained to Mike about the expense of living in London. Potential flatmate, then. Simple. Now to find out a bit more about the man he could potentially share living quarters with, Sherlock Holmes mused, formulating a plan.

* * *

"Mike," Sherlock asked, praying that the man wouldn't actually have his mobile telephone device on his person, "Can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?" He retorted, amused at the tall dark-haired curiosity's antics. He'd given up trying to understand the man; it only resulted in a migraine whenever he had tried.

"I prefer to text." Short sentences, sharp and to the point, which, to a total stranger would come across as stand-offish. Not that Sherlock Holmes particularly concerned himself with social niceties. He was a man of a few words, and if he could talk to you without punctuating his sentences with insults then you were as close to a friend as the man had.

The rotund gentleman patted his pockets apologetically. "Sorry, it's in my coat." Sherlock sniffed. He'd thought as much. So far so good.

Sherlock had not forgotten the stranger was in the room with them; he was merely waiting for Mike to introduce him so that he could reel off the list of deductions he'd made thus far. Apparently doing so without actually knowing a person's name was considered creepy. Not that many people appreciated his observations, Sherlock thought darkly to himself. He was surprised, however, when the Doctor reached into his pockets, pulled out a phone and proffered it to Sherlock.

"Er here," the doctor said with a terse smile. "Use mine."

Bewildered, Sherlock Holmes murmured his thanks. It was curious for a complete and utter stranger to hand over such a personal item without having been introduced – most people who knew Sherlock Holmes wouldn't trust him to get milk from the grocer's without causing a minor incident involving the police, let alone hand him their electronic gadgets _willingly_.

He glanced up at Mike, who sputtered, realised his mistake and set about introducing the two of them.

"An old friend of mine, John Watson."

Taking the phone, Sherlock turned partially away from the military man, typing at an alarming rate before questioning with a sly smile.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock questioned – although fully suspecting the answer to be the former.

The man next to him started, "Sorry?" He looks at Mike Stamford, bemused, but the rotund man just grinned smugly and said nothing.

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock supressed a sigh. He really did dislike having to repeat himself. Then again he best be polite if there was any hope of this man coming to see the flat at 221B, Baker Street.

"Afghanistan…" the short, sandy haired man was clearly at a loss as to how this complete stranger had come across this piece of information. He'd been with Mike Stamford since lunch – and as the man didn't have his phone on him how on earth did this strange man know he'd just returned home from military service? "Sorry, how did you know?"

* * *

A woman dressed in a white lab coat, red lipstick smeared on the back of her hand trotted into the room, focusing intensely on the brimming mug of coffee in her hand. She handed the cup to Sherlock, averting her gaze from the coffee's recipient as he regarded her.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He could be polite when the mood so struck him, then, Mike Stamford realised with an inward chuckle.

Shutting John's phone, Sherlock asked, "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly sputtered her excuse, surprised he'd noticed the subtle change in her appearance. Then again, he was Sherlock Holmes. The man noticed everything. "It wasn't working." Mike supressed an eye roll as Sherlock spoke his mind.

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was a big improvement." He set the coffee down on the worktop – he grimaced after a sip, no intention of actually finishing the beverage, for the coffee from the canteen at Bart's was as good as drinking dishwater. "Your mouths too small now," he flapped his hand for emphasis, and the poor girl stood, clearly at a loss.

"... Okay." She left the room, a flurry of emotions clouding her head. It didn't take an idiot to see that she was clearly infatuated with the man - why else would she take time out of her day to make a man, who wouldn't even drink it, coffee, Mike sighed. As smart as Sherlock Holmes was, he sure could be bloody oblivious when it came to trials of the heart.

* * *

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John, who had been regarding the exchange with a mixture of bewilderment and confusion – never had he seen a man dismiss a woman's affections so cruelly. It was as if the man really had no idea that Molly was interested in him, he thought bemusedly. "I'm sorry, what?" He asked, after a quick glance at a retreating Molly, and ever-grinning Stamford told the doctor that the man was in fact talking to him.

Sherlock reeled off, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," whilst typing on a laptop, seeming completely indifferent to John's confusion, before looking up and alighting his gaze on John's. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He grinned – a false grin at that – before turning back to the seemingly more interesting task at hand.

"Oh, you… you told him about me?" The doctor questioned Stamford, his confusion taken to the next level.

He shook his head, chuckling, "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" His tone was accusatory, and John knew that if his therapist was in the room she'd be shaking her head and tutting, mouthing "trust issues" at him. But it really was bizarre that this stranger knew the intent of his visit to Bart's without having so much as spoken to their mutual friend.

Sherlock shrugged his great coat on; clearly he had somewhere else to be and was in great haste to end the current conversation. He spoke as if it was perfectly obvious, "I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now, here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." His sentences were brief and contained only the facts; as if he was reprimanding a five year old, not talking to a man who was clearly a few years his senior.

"How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?" John questioned, incredulously.

Ignoring the question, Sherlock slung a blue cotton scarf around his neck, picked up his mobile and checked it.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it."

He walked towards John, who stared at the man, trying to figure him out. He was so rude, assuming, and yet he was absolutely fascinating. The doctor didn't know the first thing about the man; not even a name, and yet he felt as if his whole life story has been put on display for the man to pick facts out from at his leisure.

Completely indifferent to John's frustration, and lack of answers, Sherlock Holmes continued his spiel. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He said that like it was a completely normal object to a) own and b) leave in such a place.

"Is that it?" an exasperated John questioned, at a loss for words.

"Is that what?" Sherlock hesitated – what more does the man need to know? He has given a time for them to meet, and a reason for his departure. That was how this whole "etiquette" nonsense worked, no? He came back into the room, stopping in front of John.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" The question itself spoke of how ridiculous the simple suggestion was, and yet the erratic genius didn't pick up on the sarcasm.

"Problem?" Sherlock's eyebrow quirked upwards into the nest of brown curls, which decorated his forehead.

John scoffed in disbelief, looking to Mike to interject, but when the man did nothing but continue to smile like the Cheshire chat, he turned back to the younger man.

"We don't know a thing about each other," he exclaimed before presenting the facts in a sterile, seemingly hostile manner, "I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

Sherlock looked at the man intensely for a moment before speaking.

John Watson is clearly not someone who throws caution to the wind and trusts complete strangers on a whim, and he clearly has underlying trust issues. Sherlock reckons John's therapist has told him this, but he also reckons that the man's psychosomatic limp is not the result of _post_-traumatic stress, like his therapist suspects, more so the absence of stress and danger from his life now that the doctor has returned to the civilian way of life. He thinks John should fire his therapist – but he does not share this as he feels it would only anger him, and he does want him to look at the flat, after all. There will be time to anger, confuse and subsequently disappoint (as is always the way when you're a sociopath) the man later, Sherlock thought to himself.

He looked intensely into the Doctor's eyes, in such a way that would make a weaker man crumble and look away. Not John Watson. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John looked down at the offending metal cane, and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

Sherlock grinned smugly. "Now that's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John just stared at him, feeling like the starting gun for a race had just been fired and he'd been left bewildered and unmoving back at the starting line.

Sherlock swanned to the door, opening it and walking through before he leant back into the room, head around the door. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B, Baker Street." With a click wink at John, as if the gesture is a perfectly normal exchange between two men, and a curt nod in Stamford's direction, Sherlock said, "Good afternoon," and then he was gone.

The door slammed shut.

Thick silence filled the air as John Watson struggled to comprehend the exchange that had just taken place. He looked towards Mike, hoping for an explanation, but the man only smile and nodded.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

John swallowed. Oh.

* * *

Later, John sat down on his bed, took out his mobile phone and remembered that the strange whirlwind of a man he met a couple of hours previously sent a text from it.

He checked the sent messages section of his phone, slowly, as he's still getting used to the new-fangled item of technology. Harry should've known better than to give the phone to him – he has no use for the phones many fancy applications – but nonetheless it was better than the phone going to waste, he supposed. It was such a shame that things were over between Harry and Clara.

John stared at the screen, brow furrowed in confusion as he reads the last message in his 'Sent Items' folder.

_If brother has green ladder  
arrest brother.  
SH  
_  
Staring at the words, willing them to make sense, John looked across to the table where his laptop resided. With a grunt, he heaved himself off the bed and made his way to the desk. Sitting down and drumming his fingers on the device as he waited for it to boot up, his head attempted to make sense of the day's events.

When the search engine finally booted up – his laptop was slow and he wished he had the money to buy a new one – he typed in two words.

Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter turned out to be pretty long. But what did you think? I'd love to know if you think I've got the characters right, or you think I've omitted anything important. Thanks for reading - please review - Beth


End file.
